


The Captain's Mistress

by ddotmac



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Demisexual Martin, M/M, Set between Seasons 3 and 4, alternate title: 'elias gets cucked'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddotmac/pseuds/ddotmac
Summary: No friends, no familial ties, no worldly desires; Martin Blackwood is the ideal candidate to be indoctrinated into the Lonely, but that's not the only cause Peter has to be fascinated with him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, referenced Peter Lukas/Elias Bouchard
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	The Captain's Mistress

Martin didn’t even look up when Peter let out a long breath and glanced at his wrist. “Goodness. It’s nearly half eight.”

“Mhm,” he responded noncommittally, initialing another document and setting it aside. 

“Probably best we stop for the evening,” Peter went on, standing and pulling his coat from where it hung. “Sorry to have kept you so late on a Friday night.”

Martin signed another. “It’s fine. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

He paused for a moment, scanning Martin gently. “That so?”

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” he scoffed acidly, but the intent was tired, faded somewhat.

“Then perhaps I could persuade you to join me for dinner?”

Finally the movements of Martin’s hand ceased and his eyes tracked up to Peter’s. He saw there a smile that appeared genuine, and eyes that appeared strangely hopeful. A long silent moment passed as he scrutinized him, and at last said, “Are you serious?”

“Certainly. My treat. For your trouble.” 

Martin sputtered for a moment, fumbling with an excuse. “I-I’m hardly dressed to go out.”

“Nonsense. You look wonderful,” Peter replied in stride, placing an amicable hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Come downstairs whenever you’re ready. I’ll be waiting for you in my car.” He slipped his jacket over his shoulders and walked out before Martin could say anything else.

He still had the supplies to stay in the archive if worse came to worst. If he didn’t come out, Peter might just leave without him. Or, he thought somewhat bitterly, he could just grow a pair and tell him no. 

But he was tired and hungry and figured that this couldn’t make things any worse, so he slunk like a wounded animal to the waiting Peter.

* * *

They arrived promptly at a restaurant that looked like they charged you fifty quid just to stand in the lobby. The only thing distinguishing Peter from the rest of the affluent-looking white men standing around in pristinely-tailored suits was his hat. When the host met his eyes, his face lit up and he flagged down a passing waiter and whispered in his ear. The waiter’s eyebrows shot up and he nodded and dashed away.

The host, who held eye contact with Peter the whole time, marched over with a huge smile and shook his hand. “Mr. Lukas!”

Peter returned the smile, with less enthusiasm, responding with a curt shake. “Benny.”

They walked together through the lobby, and Martin scrambled to follow. They passed several tables of laughing groups, smiling couples, and families with prim, quiet children politely eating, but with eyes alight. Then the people and noise faded and a small, candle-lit table with two chairs tucked into a corner came into view. As they went along, Peter and Benny’s voices floated back to Martin.

“Who’s your friend?”

“A coworker.”

“And your husband?”

“On a trip.” 

They were seated and Benny passed them both a menu. A bottle of wine was already at the table, which Benny uncorked and poured for them. “I’ll be back in ten,” he said shortly and left them alone in the dark. 

It took Martin a moment to blink away the confusion and process the fact that he was sitting across from a grinning and well-groomed Peter Lukas, offering him a glass of wine that probably cost at least fifty pounds alone. 

He forced a smile and took a sip. Red wasn’t normally his taste, but he figured that getting drunk would make the night go by more smoothly.

“Whatever you want. It’s on me.” 

“Must be nice to have a place where they know you well,” Martin mumbled, trying desperately to make conversation. 

Peter chuckled. “I wouldn’t say they know me well. They know my money, and that supersedes any amount of familiarity.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit.. harsh?”

“Perhaps,” Peter replied, pursing his lips. “But it’s more important to me that I have a place I can come to be..” He hummed thoughtfully. “Undisturbed.”

Martin busied himself with looking at the menu, which boasted fresh-caught seafood, words he couldn’t even begin to pronounce, and several complicated desserts with ingredients that sounded like they couldn’t possibly go together. 

Benny returned faster than expected, not announcing his presence, only walking up to the table with a pitcher of water, which he poured into the empty cups in front of them before pulling out his notepad and looking expectantly between the two of them.

“My usual, if you would,” Peter said fondly. Martin felt a little less.. special somehow knowing that he spoke this way to everyone. 

Benny scribbled something down and turned his eyes towards Martin. “Oh, um,” he startled into words, “I, um, would just like the filet mignon, medium rare.” 

Nodding, Benny walked away about as fast as he probably could. Martin traced his finger around the rim of his glass. “You know, you’re very polite, considering..”

“Well, people like to be treated nicely,” Peter replied, shrugging. “And most of the time, they deserve it.”

“I just wouldn’t expect someone who...” he trailed off, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Your lot don’t exactly seem like the kind to care much about politeness.”

Peter chuckled. “I don’t get to skip out on societal norms just for being an avatar of the Lonely.” Martin tensed at the unsaid words on his lips entering the conversation suddenly, but he relaxed when Peter added, “It’s alright. Nobody can hear us.” 

Martin felt like pointing out the obvious, but kept his mouth shut.

They passed the time in idle, sparse conversation, sipping at their wine. It was clear that Peter didn’t care for pleasantries, but could find relatively little to talk about with Martin that didn’t make him shut down abruptly. They had been talking literature for perhaps fifteen minutes, the only subject he’d found he could engage Martin on, when Benny returned with their dinner, said nothing, and vanished once more. 

Martin forced a soft laugh as he watched Peter bite into a piece of grilled salmon. “Isn’t it impolite to wear a hat at the dinner table?”

Peter grimaced. “Oh, please. That’s an old adage that means nothing. I’m not  _ that  _ old-fashioned.”

In spite of himself, Martin giggled. 

* * *

Two hours later, stuffed full of steak and slightly tipsy, Martin watched the streetlights blur past through his bleary vision as Peter drove. The air became thick as though he was trying to ask a question. At last, he said simply, “Do you like champagne?”

“Yes.” _ Much more than red wine _ . “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to come to my place for another drink,” Peter said slowly. Almost nervously.

Part of Martin whined in protest, citing his exhaustion and the possibility of a hangover, while the rest of him pointed out that getting expensive alcohol for free is an opportunity that shouldn’t be taken lightly, and he accepted before he even realized that the words had left his mouth. 

He should’ve anticipated this, but Peter’s place was almost horrifically decadent. It was pristine, decorated like a restoration of a dead celebrity’s house, with all of the trappings of a home and none of the warmth. 

“You really live by yourself?”

“Of course.”

“I-I just mean, your house is enormous, don’t you get..?” he trailed off, prompting Peter to turn over his shoulder and laugh softly. 

Martin looked at the pictures on the mantle, all stiff portraits of who he assumed were other Lukases, but his attention was eventually drawn by Peter leading him gently into the kitchen. He pulled a bottle from one of many fridges and pointed Martin up the stairs with a nod. All he could do was follow. 

He still couldn’t quite believe it. Stood in Peter Lukas’s room, watching Peter Lukas open a bottle of champagne and pour it into flutes, Peter Lukas’s fingers brushing against his own as he accepted the glass. 

He took a sip, sweet and smooth. “It’s nice to spend time together outside of work,” Peter said. Martin did not respond. He was busy thinking about the way the moon made Peter’s ice-colored eyes glow unnaturally. 

Finally, Peter turned to him and for the first time that evening, a small frown was on his face. “Listen, I, um..” Martin’s eyebrows furrowed in concern, but before he could ask any questions, Peter’s free hand was tenderly cradling his face and his lips were on Martin’s.

He froze, eyes wide open, and waited until Peter pulled back. “Is something the matter?”

“W-was this a  _ date?”  _ The words came tumbling out of Martin’s mouth, face flushed red.

“Yes, I—“ Peter backed up and cleared his throat. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought I had made it obvious.” Martin’s eyes darted to the door and he grabbed his wrist just enough to draw his gaze back. “Stay. Please. I’ll make it up to you.”

Martin bit his lip and nodded, taking another sip of champagne.  _ What the hell am I doing? _

Peter sat on his bed and downed the glass, taking off his hat with a sigh. His hair was still perfect. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure this is all my fault.”

“It’s fine, really,” Martin replied dazedly, the impression of Peter’s soft lips still tingling against his own. 

“Sit down, at the very least.”

Martin looked over at Peter’s outstretched hand as though it were a bear trap, and slowly, he took it. Their eyes met and before he knew what was happening, his legs were straddling Peter’s and their mouths met again. A hand wandered up Martin’s back slowly, pressing gently on the back of his neck, pushing his mouth in deeper. Their breath mingled as it got more intense. Martin’s arms slipped around Peter’s neck as they pulled apart, pressing their foreheads together.

“Can’t Elias.. see—?”

“Forget about him.”

There was a long silence.

“I can’t do this,” Martin whispered at last, closing his eyes.

Peter laughed breathily. “It’s been three months. You’re not still caught up on Jon, are you?” 

Martin sighed. “I know that the chances are slim, but it hasn’t been that long and I really just—“

He was cut off by Peter’s mouth crashing into his and his hands coming up to hold his hips firmly. He melted into the kiss, body going limp. His hands found their way into Peter’s hair. 

Suddenly, Peter flipped them over and pressed Martin into the bed, causing his eyes to burst open and his face to flush beet red again. He stammered as Peter pinned his wrists to the bed and began leaving a trail of kisses on Martin’s jaw. 

“I-I can’t do this,” Martin blurted out. Peter froze immediately and pulled back, letting some of the weight off of Martin’s arms. “I, I just, I’m not.. I don’t want...”

Peter’s eyes went wide and he stood up, letting Martin sit up and fold into himself. “I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t apologize. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

Martin stood up and collected himself, retrieving the coat he’d tossed over the chair. “I-it’s not your fault, I just, I should really go..”

Peter chased after him, putting both hands on his shoulders. “Hey, hey, it’s so late, do you really think it’s safe to go home now?”

“I’ll.. I’ll take the tube,” he said, trying to wrench away politely.

“No. Stay the night. I insist.” 

Martin finally met Peter’s eyes. A ‘no’ was breaking at the back of his throat, but it dissolved and he swallowed it, nodding slowly. 

Peter’s guest bed was perfectly soft, as were his borrowed pajamas. “We should really do this again sometime,” he insisted as he told Martin goodnight. And that morning after he presented him with breakfast, and later when he dropped him off a few blocks from the Institute so nobody would see them together.

Every time, Martin nodded politely, but in his head, he was screaming no, and hoping that Peter wouldn’t notice the watch he’d nicked.


End file.
